


The Adventure Of The Aluminium Crotch

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Acts of God, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, London, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Be careful what you wish for – the Good Lord answers a man's prayers rather more directly that he had bargained for, and Sherlock has to work out which of the many people with a motive to remove a most unpleasant victim actually did it.





	The Adventure Of The Aluminium Crotch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Three years elapsed before occurred my brother Sherlock's next case that I am at liberty to publish. Shortly after his return from Hampshire our brother Mycroft inveigled poor Sherlock into a most convoluted affair involving a Hostile Foreign Power that, sadly, I am unable to divulge details about, save to say that it resulted in our youngest brother being severely ill and having to spend some weeks recuperating in Sussex,. I was exceedingly grateful to the authorities at Caius College in Cambridge, who showed great flexibility in allowing Sherlock to complete the final months of his course by correspondence so he could graduate as expected. 

Kean has just made a certain comment about showing great flexibility that quite made me lose my train of thought. He will pay for that later. Or I will. I am not fussy!

Sherlock had recovered by the end of that year, when he took rooms in Montague Street, near the British Museum in London. He still seemed unsure as to what to do with his life, although given his recent illness I was not inclined to push matters. The following year passed uneventfully, but in eighteen hundred and seventy-nine he was involved in his second published case _The Musgrave Ritual_. Shortly after this he joined the Sasanoff Shakespeare Company, starring as Hamlet in such a well-received production in the capital that said Company decided to tour the United States for a year. He returned to England ironically in the same week that Watson was brought back wounded from India, although it would be some time before they first met. But in less than two weeks the good doctor was responsible, albeit inadvertently, for landing my brother his next case.

_(Note: I have kept the original spelling of the title, as at the time of this story both 'crotch' and 'crutch' were used for a metal or wooden support.)_

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Esquire_

I returned from the United States to find that, to my surprise, I had a new landlady. Mrs. West had suffered a fall not long after my departure and had decided to retire to Kent to live with her sister and brother-in-law. The house had been sold to a Mrs. Aliana MacAndrew but fortunately she had agreed to keep my room for me in my absence, and her cooking was definitely an improvement (although the strange black object that made occasional appearances on my breakfast plate was always jettisoned out of the window).

It was Mrs. MacAndrew who brought me my next case, albeit inadvertently. Naturally she could not allow something as precious as a room in London to go unused for a whole year, so some shuffling around of her tenants had been effected. A Doctor Edward Bannister had had the use of my rooms for most of my absence (I had agreed with Mrs. West that this might be allowed) and had moved to Room Two before my return. He was a merry young fellow who reminded me a little of my friend Peter Goodfellow, now becoming established in his own London practice not far away. Hence it surprised me one day when I left my room and encountered him in the hallway looking very serious.

“Is something the matter?” I asked.

He nodded, looking even more serious.

“It is the Aberdour Murder”, he said. “Did you read about it in the paper?”

I had seen the headline in the paper that day, but had not taken much notice of it. This was London, and murder was not the news that it probably should have been. 

“Why is that a concern?” I asked before I remembered something. “The headline said it had happened in Richmond Park. Is that not near your parents' house?”

“Fairly near, but it is not that”, he said. “The murder took place in Northam churchyard some two miles away. However it chanced that I was attending the local squire there when a constable came haring in to tell him what had happened. On realizing who I was he asked me to come and examine the body, which I did. It was.... odd.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Perhaps we might discuss it upon your return?” he asked. 

“I would be fascinated to hear about it”, I said. “I am visiting my brother Mycroft at his club just now, but you are welcome to call any time this evening.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“This is a very strange matter”, Doctor Bannister said. “I rather think it is one of those matters like you said when we had drinks the other week. It is not so much as to who is guilty – and that is problematic enough – but that the lives of so many innocent people are also being ruined.”

“Pray tell me all about it”, I said. 

“This happened as I said in the churchyard of St. George's in Northam, close by Richmond Park”, he said. “It is a very well-to-do area, almost completely self-contained and, if I am being honest, snooty even by Richmond standards! The murdered man was a retired colonel, Robert Aberdour by name, and from what my parents told me about him when I called on them that same evening, hated by just about everyone!”

“Why?” I asked, curiously. 

“Retired army are, as you know, normally welcome in any area”, Doctor Bannister explained, “but Colonel Aberdour rubbed just about everyone up the wrong way. Once he got himself appointed as a local magistrate he proceeded to crack down hard on all and any transgressions, and made even those of his own class afraid of his bad temper. He walked with a stick, and would often use it to lash out at those who displeased him. Which was practically everybody.”

“Not the greatest loss, then”, I muttered.

“Indeed”, he said. “So to the day of the murder. Colonel Aberdour was coming to see the squire, my patient, for an appointment at five o'clock. I did not know this until, at about a quarter past the hour, my patient observed that the colonel was rarely ever late....”

“Why were you still treating the patient when he was expecting someone?” I cut in.

“I had called in merely to check some wound dressings, but I found that they were well on the way to becoming infected”, he explained. “The squire is one of those who do not follow their doctor's sage advice; he had obviously been out walking after I had told him not to. I had to have them boil some water and tear up some sheets to make new ones, whilst I thoroughly cleansed the wound. The process took most of an hour, rather than the short visit that I had allowed for. One can never be too careful in such cases.”

“I see”, I said, pushing my fingers together.

“It must have been only a minute or so after five that Constable Reedless was making his way through the churchyard on his rounds, and found the colonel's dead body”, Doctor Bannister said. “His face had been hideously smashed in on one side, and a large hammer lay next to him. The constable checked the body then hurried back to the station to inform his colleague, Constable Westwood.”

“Straight back to the station?” I asked. “How far is that?”

He thought about that for a moment.

“Not much more than a quarter of a mile, I should say”, he said. “The place is quite compact; the squire's house is much the same distance but in almost the opposite direction. Is that important?”

“It may be”, I said. “What time did he reach the squire's house, pray?”

“At a quarter past the hour”, he said. “The clock chimed just before the doorbell rang. He had left Westwood to guard the body - a crowd had already begun to assemble, Lord alone knows how – and could not believe his luck in finding me. I returned to examine the body at once; the squire had wanted to come with me but I warned him that if he dirtied his wound a second time, he might even lose the leg. A little dramatic; the real reason was that I did not want him making a fuss as he is wont to do. He duly stayed behind and we reached the churchyard in about five minutes. I examined the body and placed the time of death at between four thirty and five o'clock, I would have hazarded closer to the former.”

“Hmm”, I said. “The press reported that the object next to the body was a 'large hammer'. Larger than a standard one, I presume?”

“Yes, that was one thing that concerned me about the case”, Doctor Bannister said. “Constable Westwood went a strange colour when his colleague pointed it out to me, and I asked why. He said that he recognized it; it came from the local smithy and was marked with the smith's name. And the smith there was one of the many people who hated the colonel.”

“Is he one of the three people mentioned in the article?” I asked.

“That bloody article!” Doctor Bannister growled. “Once those people have been named they may never get their reputations back. Yes, Hosea Atherley is the village blacksmith; I had to treat him one time. A strapping young man, which is unfortunate as the force used to strike the fatal blow must have been considerable. But that description also applies to Constable Reedless, who is very heavily-built. Westwood on the other hand could probably be blown down the Thames by a strong gust of wind; I do not know how he ever became a policeman! I also learnt that Aberdour had taken a dislike to Reedless when the constable had defended someone in front of him as a magistrate, and had been trying to get him removed from his post.”

I thought for a moment.

“There is something you have not mentioned, doctor”, I said at last.

“Constable Reedless brought Atherley into the station whilst I was there”, Doctor Bannister said, sounding almost reluctant. “I could not help noticing that there was a tiny blood spatter on his sleeve. When I mentioned it, he said that he had cut himself shaving that morning.”

I nodded. “And the third person?” he inquired.

“Probably the only person who can be cleared”, he said. “The Reverend Ian Candy, the vicar at St. Stephen's where the murder took place. He was in the church at the time....”

“Then surely he is a suspect?” I interrupted. He smiled knowingly at me.

“The man is undersized and walks with a limp”, he explained. “I doubt be could blow the skin off a rice-pudding! He could never have exerted the sort of power necessary for the mortal blow; I would stake my reputation on that. Although he certainly had motive; the colonel struck out at him to give him that limp only the previous week, apparently because he did not like the weekly sermon! He had been checking out the bells with the verger that afternoon, and was in the belfry untangling ropes.”

“The verger?” I asked.

“A Mr. Terence Garton-Brooks, a replacement for the normal man who is on holiday”, Doctor Bannister said. “Probably one of the few people not to have earned the Colonel's enmity, though I am sure it would have come with time. He left the church a few minutes after four o'clock. The vicar stayed up in the tower – I suppose that he prefers it to his office, as he would be less likely to get disturbed – and my mother knows the verger's neighbour, who said that he came home and set to work in the garden. He was there between a quarter past four and half-past five.”

“It sounds a most intriguing case”, I said. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I think a day or so spent by the Thames would be interesting.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day I took a cab to Waterloo Station then a London & South Western Railway train down to Richmond, before another cab for the short ride to Northam. I reported to the local police station where I was lucky enough to find Constable Obadiah Westwood. 

“My dear wife read the article to me at breakfast yesterday morning”, he said, pouring out some questionable substance that may or may not have been tea. I eyed the plant in the corner and wondered if pouring my offering into the pot would kill it. “It is accurate as far as it goes, although I was surprised that it left off possibly the most likely suspect.”

“And who might that be?” I asked.

“A Mr. Theophilius Berringe”, the constable said. “He is a Nonconformist preacher who the late colonel made strenuous efforts to have removed from the area, to little avail.”

“That must have vexed him”, I observed.

“It did”, the constable said. “Mr. Berringe is staying at the White Hart, and because the colonel put the landlady Mrs. Benson's husband away for a minor poaching offence, she let him stay there for free. She is a formidable lady – it is fortunate she herself was away visiting her sister in Croydon on the day of the murder, or she herself would have certainly been a suspect – and she even allowed Mr. Berringe to preach there, though not of course during opening hours. The colonel did not take that at all well.”

“I must thank you for discussing the case with me”, I said politely. “Was the colonel's body examined by your own doctor?”

“Yes, but he only confirmed the times and that the attack had to be done with great force”, the constable said. “The mortuary are collecting him tomorrow; I sent details of the death to his nephew, the only son of his late sister Mrs. Sharpe. A Lieutenant Mark Oxford, in the Lincolnshire Regiment. Bledlow – the late colonel's manservant - said he was staying at a hotel in Southampton, so I wired there.”

“Not a Lieutenant Sharpe?” I asked, surprised.

“Mrs. Sharpe's first husband, Mr. Jack Oxford, died not long after their son was born”, the constable said. “She remarried a glove-maker, Mr. William Sharpe; Bledlow told me that the colonel hated both men, which was hardly a surprise. He also gave me the name of the solicitors as regards the will. I thought that I might have difficulty there – you know what lawyers are like, sir – but the colonel had ordered the will to be placed in a newspaper so there were none. The estate goes wholly to Lieutenant Oxford, but he has to pay his mother a monthly allowance out of it for her lifetime.”

“Thus cleverly evading the law that a wife's money is her husband's”, I smiled. “Was the colonel a rich man?”

“His cottage and a small cash sum”, the constable said. “Naturally I checked on the two beneficiaries but both have strong alibis; she was visiting a friend on the Isle of Wight, and he is away on some army course down in Devonshire. He wired me to tell Bledlow to take care of the place in the meantime and that he will continue to be paid his salary until he finds another position, which was good of him.”

“What about Bledlow?” I asked.

“He was visiting a friend in Kingston on his half-day off”, the constable said. “And he does not gain at all from his employer's death; indeed he loses his employment. Although Mr. Sharpe also said to tell him that he would write him a reference. I do have a photograph we took of the colonel, sir, if that is of any use to you?”

I accepted the photograph and examined it for some time. 

“This is a very strange case”, I said slowly. “May I see the hammer that was found next to the body, constable?”

“You mean the murder weapon, sir?”

“Possibly. Or possibly not.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Why not?” he asked at last.

“That may not have been the murder weapon”, I said flatly. “You note the expression on the victim's face.”

“But there is no expression, sir”, the constable pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“I don't....”

“Constable, the angle of the wound suggests that whatever struck his skull did so at approximately right-angles to the way he must have been walking”, I said. “There is no way that the colonel could not have seen a man approaching him wielding a weapon, and that would surely have been reflected in his final visage. Yet from what remains of his face, there is no shock, and indeed no emotion at all. Therefore a single blow is implied, which rules out the hammer.”

The constable gaped.

“So what sort of weapon _are_ we looking for, sir?” he asked. 

_“Dies Irae”_ , I muttered.

“What?” 

“The wrath of God”, I said. “Something Nonconformist priests like Mr. Berringe are always threatening to call down on the lies of Colonel Aberdour. May I ask, constable, what is the church path where the body is found actually made of?”

The constable blinked at the question.

“Loose stone chippings, sir”, he said cautiously.

“And there is clear visibility all around?”

“Yes, sir. There are trees, but they're over in another part of the churchyard.”

I looked meaningfully at him.

“What I am driving at”, I said gently, “is that you have just precluded the possibility of anyone sneaking up on him from behind. So since the blow was struck from the side and he did not look surprised.....”

“He knew his murderer! Oh Lord!” 

“I have an idea, constable”, I said. “I need to see someone in the village. If what I suspect is the case, then I fully expect the killer of Colonel Aberdour to be in your cells by this evening. Though I have to add that you will find it very difficult if not impossible to get a murder conviction against him.”

The constable's eyes lit up, and I could almost see the word 'promotion' flashing in them. I stood up, bowed and left.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

After some further inquiries I decided to adjourn to the local hostelry for some refreshment. I had barely sat down however when a muscular blond young man sat down unannounced across from me.

“Hosea Atherley”, he said curtly. “Bess tells me you've been asking questions about Aberdour's death?”

“It would do you well to take a more polite attitude, young man”, I said reprovingly. 

“And why would you think that, my fine fellow?” Mr. Atherley sneered.

“Because as long as the murderer is at large, you yourself will remain under suspicion”, I said quietly. “And for someone in business, that could spell disaster.”

The man seemed to back down at that, but still looked at me suspiciously.

“Where did you lose the hammer?” I asked. He looked surprised, and thought before answering. 

“I had it two days ago when I put a picture up for Mr. Berringe”, he said. “I clean all my tools once a week, so I know it was there then. The only jobs I've done since then were a job at the local railway station, the pipes at the police station, and some repairs to the tower railings at the church. It could have fallen out at any of those places and I wouldn't have missed it. You think someone is trying to frame me?”

“Is there anyone in the village who might dislike you enough to do that?” I asked.

“Only Reedless!” Atherley chuckled. “I am seeing his sister Rose and he doesn't approve!”

I nodded understandingly.

“Hopefully the killer will be known by this evening”, he said. “Indeed, I am expecting one of the other people in the case.... ah, here he comes now.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The Reverend Ian Candy was limping towards me. Atherley nodded to me and left before he could reach us.

“Sit down, Reverend”, I said gently. “Thank you for coming.”

“Your letter said that it was urgent”, the vicar said. “What, pray, was so important as to make me miss choir practice?”

This was not going to be pleasant.

“What did you do with it?” I asked quietly. There was no-one sat near us, but people were passing nearby on their way into the tavern.

“With what, sir?” he said, though I noticed that he was sweating. 

“With the aluminium crotch.”

I thought the man would fall off his chair at that, and caught him as he swayed violently. I reached a comforting hand across the table.

“It was not murder”, I said quietly. “There was no pre-meditation. It was quite literally a thousand-to-one chance. You called down the wrath of God on your enemy, and your employer, probably to your surprise and horror, duly obliged.”

The man shook, sobbing silently. I helped him up and led him over to the bench on the nearby green, away from the pub. 

“It was ironic, was it not?” I said gently. “The colonel gave you that injury, and he was killed because of it.”

The man managed to pull himself together a little. 

“You are right”, he admitted. “I killed him.”

“Killed, but not murdered.”

“I had no way of knowing.....”

“No, you did not”, I said. “Whilst you were enjoying the peace and quiet of the bell-tower, you remembered Mr. Atherley's request to look for his lost hammer. You went out to check around the railings where the man had been working, a vantage-point from which I would wager the view is magnificent. It was pure chance that led you to look down, and to see the man who had hurt you. The man whose attitude and approach to life were upsetting so many in your congregation. In a fit of rage, you threw at him the only weapon you had to hand, your aluminium crotch. Having seen the church tower and applied some elementary trigonometry to establish the height, I calculated that an object that was merely dropped from the roof would, by the time it reached someone standing on the ground, be travelling at a speed of approximately twenty yards per second at least, faster still if it was thrown down in anger. The impact on the skull would have been that of a local train at speed. The colonel never knew what hit him, hence his lack of expression.”

 _“Dies Irae”_ , Mr. Candy muttered.

“Indeed”, I said. “The wrath of God. For all the suffering that that man caused, especially to you, that missile flew straight and true to its destination. When you came down to see what you had done you were of course horrified. Then you heard someone approaching up the path, grabbed the crotch and hurried back inside the church to hide.”

“I did not.....”

“I know that you did not 'plant' Mr. Atherley's hammer”, I said consolingly. “That was the work of Constable Reedless. He evidently lied when he said that he had returned straight to the station; he took far too long for so short a journey which in the circumstances he would have been hurrying over. His first port of call would obviously have been the nearby church, hoping to find you who, I would hazard, had taken refuge inside a locked office. The constable did however chance to find the lost hammer, most likely on the bench in the poorly-lit porch. I am afraid that the temptation to implicate a person that he disliked in a major crime proved too strong for him. I can but hope that it does not blight his career as a result.”

“And me, sir?” the reverend said quietly. 

“Mr. Atherley and Mr. Berringe are both decent human beings”, I said gravely, “and they do not deserve to be tarnished by association with this crime for the rest of their lives. You will accompany me to Constable Westwood and confess. In the circumstances, I think that a jury may be inclined towards leniency.”

I accompanied the vicar to the police station, where a stunned Constable Westwood took his confession and then locked him in the cell. I did not feel happy at this but assumed, correctly as it turned out, that an English jury would be inclined towards mercy, especially as murder as I said required malice aforethought, and this crime was quite literally an Act of God. In which I was proven right.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
